Beautiful Liar
by Neo.Natalie
Summary: Mycroft and the Doctor have many things in common. Well, only one, actually: Sherlock. While the Doctor enjoys the detective's company, Mycroft sometimes needs a brake from his annoyingly smart younger sibling. And the Doctor is (almost) always there when you need him.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Mycroft first met him when he was 16. Sherlock had run away again, because his 8 year old mind didn't respond well to the principle of coming home straight after school. Mycroft, his older brother, was sick of him acting up. And he had upset mommy again, for God's sakes! As if bringing up two highly intelligent sons all by herself wasn't work enough.

"Sherlock!", Mycroft shouted, trying not to sound too annoyed, "come out, if you are here somewhere; I promise, I'll talk to mommy about this coming home thing!" He didn't know why he was looking in the park... only because Sherlock had been here last time didn't mean anything, really, but Mycroft had this strange feeling that this might be the place to be for him this evening. And hadn't there been a noise? A very strange noise, actually. It seemed to have come from behind the trees... met him

It was dark behind the trees – dark and muddy. Mycroft swore. He would get his new trousers dirty! "Sherlock!", he barked, no longer able to keep the anger out of his voice. "It's not funny anymore! Could you behave like a normal child for ONCE?" Suddenly a grown man stood in front of him. "He's not here, but you might want to look near the swimming pool," the man said politely. "Who are you?" Mycroft looked the man up and down. He wore a blue suit, a white shirt, a red tie and red high-top converse vans. Mycroft wrinkled his nose. Even at 16, he knew that THOSE shoes didn't go with a suit. "I am the Doctor," the man said. "And you are Mycroft, right?" "Where do you know my name from? If it was Sherlock who told you, none of what he says about me is true!"

The Doctor's face – which was friendly enough, even Mycroft had to admit – broke into a wide grin. "Of course not, and you don't want to snog Christine Weber or something." "That little brat," Mycroft said between gritted teeth. "Oh, don't worry, your secret is safe with me," the Doctor winked, "with your brother's invisible friend." "Invisible friend?" But it couldn't be... or could it? Mycroft had always thought it strange that his brother, of all people, had 'an invisible friend' – that kind of made-up friend some little kids had, but Sherlock seemed to be too intelligent to have. But then what if...

"You are not a pervert, are you? If you have done anything to my brother, I will have you killed!" Mycroft's eyes gleamed in fury. The Doctor nodded solemnly. "Yes, one day, you will have that power. But you don't have to worry, I was only talking to your brother... and anyway, I'm not interested in that sort of thing," "What's in it for you then?" "Oh, just some exchange of ideas, from one genius to another." Mycroft laughed. "Oh, really, and not full of yourself, are you?" The Doctor smiled again, his eyes blinking. "How old are you now? 16? And not afraid, not afraid at all, standing in a dark spot behind a tree with a strange alien." "Why should I be afraid?" Mycroft snorted. "It's not like you are going to eat me. And you know Sherlock, so you probably won't be stupid enough to kill me in a public place like that."

"I could hide the body in my spaceship," the Doctor laughed. "Nay, don't have time for that," Mycroft said, "have to find my brother." And that was that. Sherlock was brought home safely half an hour later. He had been near the swimming pool; on top of a tree, of course. Even though persuading him to get down there was easy enough, Sherlock couldn't be talked into telling his brother more about his strange secret friend. Lurking behind trees in Regent's Park was a suspicious business, of course, but Mycroft still had the feeling that this guy was somehow okay. Must have something to do with that almost contagious grin.

In fact, Mycroft couldn't stop thinking about the Doctor for some time. "And you don't know where he came from, do you?" "Noooooooot telling you." "Ok, ok, Sherlock, you can still talk normally." "Nah, cause you are daft." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "But he's nice, isn't he? Kind of good-looking as well..."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "I'm sure he doesn't want to snog you either." "That's not what I thought of." "That's ALWAYS what you are thinking of these days," Sherlock complained. And then he was right. As always. And what would it be like to kiss a guy? What would it be like to kiss THAT guy?

But some weeks later, Mycroft managed to persuade Christine to kiss him, found out that kissing was not really his thing and forgot all about the Doctor for some years.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mycroft tapped his foot to the music. "Wake me up before you go go," he hummed. Suddenly a half-naked Sherlock burst into the room. "Eew, you are listening to crap music again!" "Be quiet und get dressed, brat!", his older brother barked. "No time," Sherlock explained, "and I need your cigarette lighter." Mycroft threw his lighter at him and turned the volume of the music up. His younger brother caught the lighter in mid-air, rolled his eyes and left the room.

"Quite a handful, isn't he?" Mycroft leapt off his bed. "Where the dickens did you come from?" "Egypt, 1923," the Doctor answered drily. Mycroft frowned at him. "Yea, sure." "You wanna see?" "No, I don't want to join a crazy person to a foreign, far-away country, thank you very much." The Doctor grinned. "I heard you got a quite good job at the Ministry... not bad for 24." Mycroft opened his mouth, but actually didn't know what to say. So far, his mother was the only one who had congratulated him on his new job and even that had been only half-heartedly, as Sherlock had been busy burning down the house with his experiments at that time. "Thank you," he finally answered. "It's ok," the Doctor grinned. "And now let's go out, shall we?" "Where to?" "Where do you people usually go to have fun?" "The Pub?" "Yea, let's go there!"

Mycroft hadn't been 'out' for ages, as studying and Sherlock and brooding about Sherlock getting more attention than him had taken up all of his time. And looking for a new flat, of course. But then Mycroft didn't really want to move out, partly because he didn't want to let his mother alone with his younger brother and partly because he just couldn't be bothered to do the housework. However, he didn't have anything against a pint or two with a beautiful stranger – not that this necessarily included the Doctor, of course.

"You take a pint as well?" The Doctor looked up from the screwdriver he had been fiddling with. "Something sweet for me, please." "Something sweet?" "Just bring me whatever you're taking and add sweet, that usually does the trick," the Doctor grinned. "He's really crazy," Mycroft thought, but then an idea struck him. Did this mean the Doctor didn't drink alcohol? Maybe this strange man from 'outer space' had never been to a Pub before? "One pint of Lager and one Guinness with blackcurrant juice, please."

The Doctor seemed to like his drink, but to Mycroft's disappointment, it seemed to have no effect on him. "So where do you actually come from?" Mycroft finally asked him. The Doctor's eyes turned dark. "It's a long story..." "And we have the whole night." "As far as I know, Pub's have to close around midnight, don't they?" "Not from England, then," Mycroft sighed. "Where did you meet my brother then?" "In his bedroom." "Yea, creepy enough... and how did you get there?" "Through the window." Mycroft drowned his glass. "Another drink." "Of course! But more of the sweet stuff, this time, less of the... other stuff. Tastes a bit like cat pee, if you ask me, but with a certain flavour of..." "Yes, yes, you want blackcurrant juice, ok!", Mycroft interrupted. He needed another technique of asking questions...

After Mycroft's fourth pint and the Doctor's fourth glass of blackcurrant juice, the older Holmes still didn't know much more than that the Doctor had gotten to know Sherlock by braking into their house and the questionable fact that the 'Time Lord' was travelling through time and space with a spaceship called the Tardis. The Doctor, on the other hand, had heard most of Mycroft's life story, including his hopes and dreams and the questionable theory that there was still a man on the loose who was smart enough to brake into the Tower of London, the Bank of England and steal the Crown Jewels, all within one day.

The Doctor looked thoughtfully at Mycroft. "I think you had enough of that stuff now." "You mean I am drunk? I am NOT drunk! Or at least not drunk enough... You know how exhausting it is to always be the older brother? And the only man in the house? And now I got a job, I should be oh so thankful! But you know what I am?" He smashed his fist down at the table. "I am sick of it! Of all of it! Whatever I do, my brother will always get more attention and will always, mind you, always, choose the wrong side!" Two dark, deep eyes looked at him, without blinking. "I know what you mean. I know how you must feel. It's lonely at the top," the Doctor said thoughtfully.

And then Mycroft saw. Saw for the first time. The Doctor understood, really understood. He was here to listen, not to talk, and it wasn't important where he had come from or where he would go to, it was just important that he was here now. "Can I see your Tardis now?", he asked softly. "Of course," the Doctor grinned.

They left the Pub, walked for a few minutes down the street, into a small alley and stopped directly in front of a blue police box. "Ok, where is it now?", Mycroft asked, smiling. "Right in front of you." "It is... in a police box?" "It IS the box." "Ok, he's crazy after all," Mycroft thought, "and now he will... what? Rape me? Kill me? Steal the 5 Pounds I carry?" But the Doctor had already started walking again and went... straight into the box. Mycroft sighted. "I can always claim that I was drunk," he mumbled to himself and followed the strange man.

He couldn't believe what he saw. "This is just... impossible!" He stepped out of the box again. And inside again. And out again. After the third time, he decided that four pints on an empty stomach was obviously too much for him. "It's amazing, isn't it?", the Doctor exclaimed. "Yea... I used to be ok with five pints when I was younger." The Doctor looked at him, puzzled. "Never mind. So how does this work, this 'spaceship' of yours?" "Why are you doing this?" "Do what?" "Talk in quotation marks? The Tardis has feelings, you know?" "Right... you have a girlfriend?" Now the Doctor looked positively confused. "I don't quite get..."

Suddenly, Mycroft was standing next to him. "That's new," the Doctor murmured, "Normally it's me who's moving that quick." "What did you say?" "Nothing." "You got quite nice eyes, you know." The Doctor moved away from Mycroft, frowning. "I know..." "If you were a girl, would you be interested in me? Be honest." The Doctor obviously didn't know what this was all about. "Mycroft, maybe you should go home. I'm not sure how much of this stuff is good for you..." But Mycroft had other plans. Slowly, he leaned in and kissed the Doctor on the mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

At first, the Doctor was too surprised to react, but the his instinct took over and he returned the kiss. Mycroft's hands found their way to the Doctor's head and started pulling softly at his hair. The Doctor moaned. Usually, he was in full control of his body, but it just had been too long. And this man (boy) was really something he could get interested in. Never before had the Doctor been so eager to give in to his nature.

Softly, Mycroft pushed his tongue against the Doctor's lips, who opened them willingly. Before, kissing had seemed silly to the older Holmes, almost boring and nothing he was good at – if you could be good or bad at it – but exploring the Doctor's mouth was something quite different. "Maybe it is because I am drunk," he thought, but he didn't really care. And this was the last clear thought he had. Then, the Doctor's tongue touched his and all thought was gone. Before, it had been just want, now it was electricity running through both of their bodies.

And the Doctor couldn't remain quiet any longer. He was now moaning constantly, pushing his body against the more robust frame of Mycroft's body. And Mycroft pushed back, showing him against the panel of the Tardis. His hands were no longer careful, but pulled harder at the Doctor's hair. Then the Doctor took over for a while, pushing his tongue deeply into the other man's mouth. The rubbing of their tongues against each other finally got so intense that Mycroft had to stop for breath.

"God, you are good," he said. The Doctor grinned. "Had enough practice, I suppose." Mycroft's eyes went wide. "With men?" "Mostly." "But not with... Sherlock?" The question was almost a whisper. "You are drunk," the Doctor grinned, "and I'm not into children that much." "But I am younger than you as well... a lot, I think?" "Still not drunk enough, then?" "Shut up," Mycroft groaned and tried to kiss the Doctor again, who dodged out of the way just in time. "Not like that." Mycroft was confused. "But you liked it?" The Doctor grinned again, pulling on the other man's tie experimentally. "There must be a reason you're wearing this thing all the time. Mycroft blushed – or would have, if he had been that kind of guy.

The Doctor pulled harder and a moan escaped Mycroft's thin lips. The Doctor leaned in and worried at them with his teeth, then bit down a bit harder. Mycroft moaned louder. "You like that, don't you?" "I'm drunk," Mycroft answered. Normally, the Doctor would have been confused by this, but he had learnt enough about humans by now that he knew what this meant: "You can do what you want with me, as long as you don't tell me tomorrow and as long as we can pretend later it never happened." "Does this mean fuck me?" Mycroft's breath hitched. "I just said..." "Yes, and I know what it means... what do you want it to mean?" Mycroft's mind whirled. He had never done anything like this before. He couldn't think...

But then he didn't need to. The Doctor was already palming his crotch, rubbing it gently. "Oh God!" "No, only me," the Doctor grinned, "and I'm not sure He would be good at this." "Shut up!" "There is only one way of making me..." Mycroft looked at him in confusion again. The Doctor zipped up his trousers, putting his hand inside. "Oh, it's big... I wonder how much of it I can get into my mouth..." "Yes!" "That's not an answer" The Doctor stopped rubbing the other man's dick.

"What?" "Tell me what you want me to do. I want to hear it." Mycroft swallowed. But what the heck; he was drunk and that guy was gorgeous. "Get on your knees." The Doctor obliged. "And now?" "Lick me." "Through your pants?" "No, undress me first." The Doctor grinned mischievously. "How exactly." Mycroft groaned, but this time not with pleasure. "Come on, tell me." "Push my trousers down... and my pants. And get my cock out." "See, wasn't too hard to say the word was it?", the Doctor asked while doing as Mycroft had told him. "And you have a beautiful cock, you can be proud of it... big as well."

"Stop the talking, put it in your mouth." "Oh, you like the talking. You got quiet a bit harder when I told you how gorgeous you are." Slowly, the Doctor circled the head of Mycroft's cock with his thumb and was rewarded by a loud moan. "Aren't you gorgeous. I'm sure, you will fill my mouth completely. And then you are already leaking. You want me to lick it off?" "YES!" "No need to shout, I will do anything you tell me, I like it when you give me orders." "..." "Did I make you speechless?" The Doctor's tongue flicked out and licked the pre-come off Mycroft's hard cock. "Oh, you taste amazing, I will eat you up and swallow every drop of your sperm when you come." "Oh, yes, do it!" "Tell me, tell me what I should do." The Doctor was rubbing his own cock though his pants now. "Take it into your mouth, all the way in. I want you to suck me off. Use your tongue. Rub it against the head of my cock and then along the side."

The Doctor groaned, rubbing his cock harder. "Can I take it out?" "Yes, sure, I want to see it, want to see how turned on you are." Down went the Doctor's trousers and pants and he grabbed his cock eagerly, moaning loudly while doing it. Then he took Mycroft's cock in his other hand and led it to his mouth, opening up wide. "Yes, like that. Slick it up completely, I'm already so wet for you." The Doctor rubbed his tongue against the head of Mycroft's cock and they both moaned. Then the Doctor started moving the other man's cock in and out of his mouth.

Again, Mycroft pushed his hands into the Doctor's hair, grabbing and pulling. The Doctor sucked harder and quicker, getting himself off eagerly. "Yes, oh God, yes! That's amazing, yea, harder!" Mycroft's words got more and more erratic, the closer he was. "Oh, Doctor, yes, I'm coming! Yea, suck me off!" Suddenly, the Doctor felt the other man's cock twitch and a hot stream of cum filled his mouth. The Doctor swallowed it all down, jerking his own cock harder and harder until he pulsed against Mycroft's leg, groaning loudly.   



	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The next morning, Mycroft woke up in his bed as if nothing had happened. At first, he actually thought that nothing HAD happen. He had been drunk, right? Must have dreamt the whole thing up. Except, Mycroft didn't dream stuff like that. Not even when drunk. Sex was boring, he was sure of that. Just like kissing... girls. Mycroft sat up like somebody had just threatened to starve him otherwise. Was he into men? He shook his head furiously. He couldn't imagine touching somebody, or being touched by, anybody else than the Doctor. But who was this strange doctor? And where did Sherlock know him from?

Sherlock! Mycroft's eyes went wide. Had the Doctor told him about last night? Or would he? Hurriedly, Mycroft got up, got dressed and went into his brother's room. Sherlock was already up, reading some old book, which looked as if it had about a thousand pages and was equally old in years. "Where did you get that from?" "Obvious, isn't it?" "No, it's not, tell me." Sherlock groaned. "The Doctor brought it from one of his travels." Mycroft cleared his throat. "The Doctor and you... how close are you two?" "As close as it gets," his brother answered simply. "So have you... kissed or anything?"

Sherlock looked up from his book, but only to scowl at his older brother, then dived right back in. "Don't be gross. Intelligent people don't do things like that." Mycroft laughed. "I know quite a lot who do." "You don't know really intelligent people, accept me, and I don't kiss," Sherlock said. Mycroft frowned, but left it at that. "So do you ever talk about... me, for example." "Don't be daft, we only talk about interesting things." "So if he... mentioned me, would you just change the subject?" "Of course, I don't want to waste my time..." Normally, Mycroft would be outraged by so much arrogance, but today he was actually glad that his brother was such a brat.

So for some time he was safe and his 'secret' staid secret. Mycroft was right about himself on that day: He wasn't interested in men in general. Only in one. And as his job and his brother needed most of his attention, he didn't even spent much time thinking about that man either. It was only sometimes, when Mycroft was sitting in front of the fireplace in his new apartment, sipping on a drink and feeling slightly lonely, that his thoughts went back to that night.

No matter how much he thought about it, he could never tell what exactly his feelings were for the Doctor. It was like the man had understood him like no other... but then one couldn't tell just from spending a few hours together, could one? There was nothing special the Doctor had said, either. Only what he had done... but then he had done that with a lot of guys, probably. And if the Doctor had wanted to see Mycroft again, he probably would have. So much time had passed already. Only a few weeks, really, but to Mycroft it seemed like an eternity.

Sometimes Mycroft didn't see a meaning in his life. He worked, he ate, he came 'home', he slept, every other week he went to see his mother, every now and then he went looking for Sherlock, trying his best to keep the younger sibling from harming himself and others... He was probably the best civil servant, the best brother and the best son one could imagine... But what use was that? What did he gain from that? Money of course, which was good, a good reputation, which was even better. His big dream was to become Prime Minister one day, but the more time passed, the more he realized that he couldn't be that. He was much better at staying in the background, pulling the strings, being secretly in control. And he could never be in the limelight, with a brother like that, could he?

It didn't hurt as much as he had thought it would to burry his dream. He already had more power than most civil servants in his department and he would become big enough in the British Government. He would BE the British Government. And then what? Where would he go from there? The Secret Service? The CIA in his free time? And then come back here, sit close to the fireplace, sip his whiskey, a whiskey more expensive he had right now, sure, but otherwise nothing would change...

Mycroft despised, like his brother, most people's company. All of them were, in his opinion, only animals, trying their best to follow the herd. Even if one of them stuck out, they were sticking out by what 'society' dictated them. Big cars are cool? So I'll buy a big car then! Mycroft laughed, without humour. His car certainly was big, black and way cooler then most people's. But he didn't fool himself into thinking that he was better because of that. He was better because of his intelligence. Nobody would ever appreciate that enough, though. They would only ever see the results of his work and count the number of friends he had. Well, acquaintances...

He went out more often than before, mainly to improve his connections... It was always good to know people's weaknesses. Only last week, he had accompanied a senior officer to a strip club. A married senior officer. It was little 'secrets' like that which would prove valuable later, Mycroft knew. The more afraid he was that somebody might find out about his 'secret'. But then it wouldn't be of any value, would it? Being gay was more or less accepted nowadays and he wasn't married or otherwise bound. Still... There seemed to be something deeply intimate in the way he thought about the Doctor...

One evening, when he had a bit too much – something he strictly avoided when in public – he had caught himself whispering "cause I want you to be mine". And it was true, he had realized later. He wanted the Doctor to be his, only his. It seemed to be alright enough that the Doctor occasionally visited his brother, maybe that would help keeping the little know-it-all out of trouble. But Mycroft spent more and more evenings wondering where the Doctor was and with whom he spent his time.

Then this other thought crossed his mind. "Time Traveller", he had said. What if it was true? Improbable, certainly, but impossible? Mycroft hadn't thought it possible before that you could chase down a criminal with only an iPhone and make him confess only by mentioning the name of a striper – a very beautiful striper, granted, but still no woman Mycroft would consider worth the trouble, even for an average person. Still his assistance had managed to just do that. Spent half of the night on her heels, actually. And who would get a promotion because of that? Mycroft! Now this world was really impossible. Not that he hadn't earned it, of course... as well as the shag his secretary had promised him in her admiration for her boss. Mycroft couldn't suppress a grin.

Some days later, a man's dreams came true – not Mycroft's, mind, but he still appreciated the gesture of... fortune maybe, as he didn't believe in God. Anthea had put on a very tight very black dress and her best smile. Good enough for most men, even if it was in Mycroft's office, not good enough for him, but he would let it pass. "I got something for you," she purred. "Want a raise, don't you?", he thought. "Want to give it to me now?", he asked.

The sex was good and Mycroft actually thought about making it a regular thing. Anthea was good in everything she did and best at keeping a secret. It had only been a slip of tongue, anyway, and she didn't know who 'the Doctor' was. Still, shouting "yes, Doctor" when climaxing wasn't the most intelligent thing he could have done. Next time, he would be prepared. Jerk off the day before, maybe. Thinking only of HIM. Mycroft's life was certainly getting better. He was even whistling when walking home, leaving his posh car where it was for the moment. Mycroft's apartment would look so much less lonely tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Some years had passed since Mycroft had last seen the Doctor or slept with Anthea. He was comfortable in his own apartment now – not that he spent much time in it. He was much too busy working for the government or looking after his brother. Sherlock had put it in his mind to be a 'consulting detective', whatever that meant. Mycroft had often appealed to Sherlock to come onto the 'right side', but his brother had simply declared this side to be too bureaucratic and 'bring'

However, solving crimes had settled Sherlock somehow, as they gave his admittedly brilliant mind something to do. These days, though, during one of London's rare summer heats, even the cruellest criminal seemed to be resting instead of committing even the pettiest of crimes. So Sherlock was bored. And bored wasn't good, that Mycroft knew. It was what made his brother dangerous; a danger to himself, most of all. Sherlock had always been reckless when bored, but lately Mycroft was more worried about him than usual. His 'informants' had told him that his brother was now experimenting with drugs and it was only a matter of time until he would take it too far. He always did, in the end, and with drugs that was hardly just one more game with danger. While other people drowned their sorrow in alcohol, mindless sex or maybe some pot, Sherlock was taking Heroin, of all things.

Not that he had to drown any sorrow... only boredom. That was what Mycroft angered most: His brother obviously didn't have any 'real' problems. So you are a genius with nothing to do but listening to the amazing brain of yours? Get over it! Mycroft had a country to run, for Christ's sake.

And then Mycroft was lonely. He didn't want to admit it to himself, at first, but he certainly was. Sure, to the outside world, he seemed cold and baring no emotion at all. He had to be, in his job. And nobody really knew him privately. It was like he was living in another universe. Mycroft just couldn't be bothered with all of the petty problems people had. And the way they spent their free time – ridiculous! Watching TV, getting drunk, having sex – all things Mycroft preferred doing when he was alone. Yes, even the latter.

Mycroft had never bothered to pick up women. Yes, he realized the way his new secretary – PA, really – looked at him sometimes. Yes, he knew that some women found him attractive and if only because he symbolized power. But a relationship, even an affair, seemed to be too much trouble to him just to get his leg over. And love, if it really excisted, seemed to be much too painful an experience. He had seen too many of his colleagues affected by it. Besides, he could hardly afford that sort of weakness in his position.

When he went to bed, though, he didn't always go straight to sleep. While avoiding all thought about the Doctor during the day or – God forbid – when Sherlock was around, he indulged himself in detailed fantasies about that strange man when he was alone at home at night.

Tonight, he took it a step further by not waiting until he got to bed. He was sitting at the open fire in his living room, sipping at his scotch, when it suddenly occurred to him that this would be the perfect place to be with the Doctor. He imagined him kneeling in front of his armchair and this thought alone made his breath more laboured. Lazily stroking his cock through his bathrobe – the only piece of clothing he was wearing in this heat – Mycroft wondered what the Doctor could do to him in this position.

Obviously, the Doctor was good at sucking him, but Mycroft had never seen the Doctor completely loose himself. What if the Doctor was stroking his own cock while getting him off? Not good enough... and he had done that, hadn't he? Only that Mycroft had been too focused on the alien's mouth... But he could finger himself? Naked in front of Mycroft, slowly circling is hole with one finger, while using his other hand to gently stroke himself...

Mycroft couldn't stand it any longer. He wet his finger with his tongue and, putting his hand under the bathrobe, started touching himself with it, pretending it was the Doctor's tongue. A moan escaped his thin lips. How amazing it must be to hear – and feel – the Doctor moan around his cock! Mycroft didn't remember the other man's cock in every detail, but he did remember that if was big. Mycroft palmed his now fully erect cock and started massaging his balls with the other hand. He liked it slow...

The Doctor, in his imagination, already had one finger inside his own ass. "Are you tight?", Mycroft whispered. "Yes," the imagined Doctor answered, taking Mycroft's cock out of his mouth for a second, only to slide it in even deeper a moment later. Two fingers now. Mycroft's hand started moving slowly up and down his shaft. "I want to fuck you," he murmured. In his head, the Doctor moaned around his cock in reply, now inserting three fingers and starting to fuck himself eagerly on them.

Mycroft's moans got louder and his hand sped up. "Yes, like that, touch yourself!" The imagined Doctor, so far holding onto Mycroft's leg for dear life, started pumping his cock with his free hand, somehow managing to suck Mycroft's cock with abandon and fucking himself on his fingers at the same time.

Mycroft groaned, pushed one finger inside himself and rode it while stroking himself quicker and quicker. Now the Doctor in his mind also got louder and, suddenly, his cock twitched, shooting sperm over Mycroft, while he still sucked and sucked. "YES, Doctor!", Mycroft shouted, coming messily all over his hand and bathrobe. "Yes", he groaned, riding his finger through the last wave of orgasm.

Inspite of the mess he had made, Mycroft sat very still after that. It didn't even cross his mind to clean himself up. All he could do was stare into the fire, not happy as usual after successfully getting himself off, but actually quite sad. "Doctor," he whispered. He missed him. He most certainly missed him. Or someone; someone who would understand him. Mycroft laughed drily. Or course, he didn't know the Doctor well enough to know if he really understood, if he even cared... but then who did?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

After not hearing anything from Sherlock for almost a week, Mycroft paid some men to look for him. It took them 2 hours, 25 minutes and 30 seconds to find the 'detective' and this was a worrying thing in itself, as it usually took at least 12 hours to find him.

But then Sherlock was in a very bad shape. If you could call it 'shape' at all. He was wearing nothing but jeans and a short, torn white shirt, even though he usually never went out without his beloved black coat. He wasn't even wearing shoes or socks. On his arms, Mycroft could see the clear signs of drug abuse and his brother's skin was even paler than usual – by two shades, at least. He had dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes and he had bitten his lips so much that they were bleeding. His hair was a damp, greasy mess, standing up from all sides of his head. Sherlock was so weak that the two men who had found him had to almost carry him into his brother's flat.

Mycroft didn't say anything until they had sat him down onto his couch, received their payment und left. Then he sighed and asked: "I should be shocked now, right? What is this, a call for attention? How old are you? 16?" Sherlock just stared at him with expressionless eyes. His brother sighed again. "Ok, I have enough of this... I'll pay for any clinic you want to go to, just pick one." "I'm not ill," Sherlock growled. "No, but you're on drugs. When was the last time you ate?" "What does that have to do with it?" "I asked you a question!", Mycroft shouted, loosing his temper. "Three days ago," Sherlock answered shortly.

This at least explained why he was that meagre. Mycroft could see Sherlock's rips even through the white shirt, but maybe this was just imagination. He could have told his brother that he had been worried sick about him, that he had feared the worst... But then, Sherlock wouldn't have reacted to that. He didn't understand emotions as other people did. In fact, Mycroft sometimes didn't even know how to communicate with his brother. Sometimes he just wanted to shake him, make him understand, make him stop hurting himself.

"You can make me eat, but you can't make me go into a clinic," Sherlock declared. "You need help," Mycroft said. "I can stop whenever I want to." "You said that last time we met and this was weeks ago and now look at you! You are a skeleton!" "I don't care." Mycroft was close to exploding again, but he had to keep his temper, otherwise he didn't have a chance with his brother. "If you go on like this, you will be dead in a week, two weeks maximum." "What do you care?"

That hurt, and Mycroft was pretty sure that his brother knew how much. Maybe that was why he had said it. Maybe it was the drugs speaking. He shouldn't care about that now. Those were merely words and his brother's life was at stake. But he couldn't just ignore it, couldn't just state that he cared only because Sherlock was his brother...

"Sentiment, Sherlock. I know it's not one of your strengths, but you will have to accept that there are people who actually care about you. And I am one of them. And I will NOT let you go on with this, I will not let you die. So please tell me what I can do to help you stop using this stuff." Sherlock looked at him, surprise finally filling his eyes with something like emotion.

"Then help me," he said. "I don't want this anymore. At first, I thought it would be easy to get rid of the heroin again, but now it hurts and I wantwantwant..." Sherlock stopped, desperately catching his breath. "You need some professional help, you need a doctor." "No!", Sherlock suddenly shouted, voice horse with desperation. "No doctor!" Tears brimmed up in his eyes and he whimpered: "The Doctor has left me." "What?" This took Mycroft completely by surprise. Was this about HIM? But he had always thought that what the Doctor and Sherlock had was simply platonic?

"What do you mean, he left you?" "Oh not like that," Sherlock snarled through his tears. "He just never came back." "And what did you need him for? Wasn't he just like an 'imaginary friend'?" "He was the only one I could talk to," the detective simply stated. Mycroft frowned. "Cause he was as weird as you?" His brother smiled weakly. "But if you don't want a doctor, what do you want, then?" Sherlock lowered his head, looking at the floor. "I could stay here and you could just... keep me away from drugs." Mycroft laughed drily. "I don't think it's as easy as that, Sherlock. You will be in pain. And you will need supervision. I'm not a doctor."

Sherlock raised his head again and looked him directly in the eyes. "I will not let anyone else help me but you." Mycroft swallowed. Of course he could argue with his brother, but he knew how stubborn Sherlock could be. And he did see the signs: The shaking hands, the tongue almost constantly licking over dry lips, the ragged breath... Every moment now Sherlock could brake down or worse... run away again, out of his reach. Mycroft would have to agree, at least for now. "Ok, you can stay. But you do as I say until you are clean." "Ok," Sherlock breathed, all energy suddenly leaving him.

Mycroft completely emptied the guest room for his brother, leaving only the bed inside. Then he helped Sherlock take a shower, made him drink some glasses of water and eat some porridge, even though he knew it wouldn't stay in his stomach for long. That was about all he knew about drug withdrawal: there was pain, vomiting and more pain. Of course he had contacts, people he could call, who knew more about it, but still he wasn't sure he could do it all by himself. In the long term, Sherlock would probably have to go to a clinic, and if it was against his will. Mycroft pushed the thought away for the time being and looked after his brother, made sure that he was tucked in nicely and that his pyjama wasn't too warm.

And it went well for the first few days. There was ranting and shouting, throwing up, more shouting... but nothing 'out of the ordinary', as far as Mycroft could tell. He only went into the room to clean up after his brother, make him drink as much water as possible and make sure he hadn't hurt himself... and to tuck him in, of course. Sherlock hardly talked to him and if he did, it was to demand drugs or shout abuse.

Only when he was certain that his brother was asleep did Mycroft let go. Then, he cried silently, just hoping that Sherlock would be alright. There was nobody he could talk to. He was ashamed of his brother, even though he didn't want to, it was almost like an instinct. But he was also angry. How could Sherlock do something like that to himself? How could he do that to him? And Mycroft was also angry at himself. He should have reacted earlier. But how? It was almost impossible to make Sherlock do something against his will and he hadn't actually SEEN him growing weaker and weaker. Well, he had been busy... His work was important, after all. Sherlock couldn't expect him to babysit him every hour of the day, for Christ's sake! But darn the work, it wasn't that important after all... If Mycroft were more social, had more friends, maybe, he would have been able to help his brother earlier. Maybe...

Mycroft didn't get much sleep, doing the work he had to do at home, having called in sick because of 'family affairs', and worrying about his brother constantly. And then Sherlock got worse. One moment, he was still banging at the door, demanding drugs, the next he was limply lying on his bed, shivering and sweating from every pore of his weak body. Mycroft tried to make him drink a bit of water, but his brother just threw it back up. Finally, Mycroft gave up and called for a doctor. But the moment the doctor arrived in Sherlock's room, the detective's attitude changed. He put all of his strength together, sat up and opened his eyes to stare at the intruder. When the doctor moved closer, Sherlock just moved away, not even let the man touch him. No pleading on Mycroft's part and no careful approach on the doctor's part lead to anything, and finally, even the doctor gave up and just left a few pills and some pieces of advice.

Mycroft tried several other doctors and psychologists, but Sherlock didn't let anyone get close to him. Slowly, Mycroft realized that there must be something else behind his brother's behaviour than mere stubbornness. He tried talking to him, asked if any man, if any doctor had ever touched him inappropriately or hurt him in any other way, but Sherlock didn't answer. Days went by and Sherlock's condition got from bad to worse. Mycroft sat on the side of his bed every minute of the day, giving him some water, whenever he could drink it. He knew he could have him hospitalised, but the nightmares Sherlock had made him think better of it. When his brother had those dreams he shouted "no, don't touch me," and: "go away, please, I want my Doctor, not any other, pleaaaaaaaase."

It broke Mycroft's heart and even though he had never been a religious person, one day, he started a kind of prayer. "Please, Doctor, come back, Sherlock needs you! And I need you! Please, just come back!" He repeated those sentences like a mantra, whenever Sherlock was asleep, and sometimes even when he wasn't. After finishing his work and sitting next to his brother's bed for hours, Mycroft was just too exhausted to even lie down properly next to Sherlock's bed before dozing off. He might have even forgotten to lock the door from the inside, something he usually never forgot.

And when he wakes up again, Sherlock is gone. Mycroft's heart misses a beat. "No!", is the only thing he can think, "nononononononono!" He jumps up, not minding that the sudden movement makes him dizzy, and runs out of the room, ready to search every corner of London for his brother. "Sherlock!", he shouts, hoping, PRAYING that Sherlock is still in the house.

And Sherlock is. Lying on the sofa and nursing a cup of tea, in fact. Mycroft stops dead in his tracks. For a moment, he can only stare at his brother, who is, he know realizes, dressed in one of Mycroft's dressing gowns. "How?", he finally musters. Sherlock half smiles, his face already having a much healthier colour and nods towards the kitchen door, where at this moment a man in a Tardis-blue suit appears.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mycroft looks up and straight into a pair of soft brown eyes. "Doctor," is the only thing he can say. The Doctor smirks. "Yes, it's me, hi!" "What... how did you heal my brother?" The Doctor's face goes stern. "Honestly, it was close. You should have called for my earlier." "Called for you?" "Yes, don't you think I can hear you?" "I... didn't know..." "Oh, I am sorry," the Doctor says, "so sorry. I should have told you!" "It's ok," Mycroft says, his brain still not up to what is happening at the moment. "You saved him, that's all that counts, I guess." The Doctor smiles broadly. "Tea," he states, "you should always go for tea first!" Mycroft frowns. "You didn't cure him with tea." "No, of course not, he's not a Time Lord, I had to get the poison out of his system first. Who poisoned him, by the way?" "He did."

"What?" The Doctor stared at Sherlock, wide-eyed. "You poisoned yourself?" The detective didn't say anything, but suddenly became really interested in his tea. "Yes, he did," Mycroft answered for him, "he got bored and started taking drugs." The Doctor's eyes went even wider. "You humans... sometimes I just don't get you."

"But how did you save him?", Mycroft asked again. The Doctor took a device out of his trouser pocket, which looked strangely like a screwdriver. "I used this device to track down the poison...," he frowned, "...drugs in his blood and then replaced them with glucoses." "With this?", Mycroft asked, "What is it?" "A sonic screwdriver," the Doctor explained, "it tracks down every poison, disease or wound." "And it has glucoses in it?" The Doctor laughed. "No, I got glucoses in it." Sherlock chuckled. "Obvious." His brother scowled at him. "Of course, it's obvious, but where did the 'poison' go, Doctor?" The Doctor smiled. "Where do you think it went?" Mycroft's eyes went wide. "Into you? But wouldn't that harm you?" "Oh, just a bit," the Doctor shrugged, "Time Lords can take quite a bit of pain."

He stepped away from the kitchen door he had been leaning against and walked closer to Mycroft. Sherlock started to get up. "And what are we doing now? You'll take me somewhere, Doctor?" His brother pushed him back down. "You need rest!" Sherlock landed back on the couch with a huff, glaring angrily at Mycroft. "Your brother's right," the Doctor said, stepping even closer to Mycroft, softly touching his cheek with his right hand. Sherlock made a snorting sound. "Stop flirting with him." Mycroft cleared his throat and moved away from the Doctor's hand, looking at his feet in embarrassment.

"Humans," the Doctor shook his head. Sherlock chuckled. His brother frowned at him. "Did I miss a joke?" The Doctor grinned. "You're so easy to make uncomfortable." Sherlock took the sleeve of his coat and pulled him closer. "My Doctor," he said. The Doctor laughed. "Just like old times, eh?" "No," Sherlock said, "now YOU can sit on MY lap." "Sherlock," Mycroft interfered. "What?" The detective raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't want you to flirt with his lover," the Doctor said. Mycroft suddenly had to clear his throat again. "Stop saying stuff like that."

Later, they had breakfast together and Sherlock really seemed to be all better, as he was even eating with appetite, something Mycroft had never seen before. The Doctor was in a brilliant mood as well, making jokes every now and then and flirting constantly with the elder Holmes.

Of course he wasn't serious with the flirting. He couldn't be. Mycroft was very aware of the fact that this man – being? Alien? – was much more than met the eye. Even though that alone was almost more than Mycroft could take. Now he had time to examine the Doctor closely, he couldn't stop looking. The eyes were the most striking feature. Currently, they were gleaming with joy, but still, if they looked directly at you, they seemed to look straight into your soul. And then this smile! Mycroft couldn't get enough of it and even though he usually didn't show his feelings, even when only with his brother, he couldn't stop laughing when the Doctor did. Finally, there was the hair, amazing brown hair, matching the eyes. Mycroft wished he only could touch it, run his fingers through it, hold on to it...

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. Quickly, his brother turned to the detective, afraid too much of his feelings had shown in his face. But this time Sherlock didn't want to mock him. In fact, he looked quite alarmed. "What is it? Are you not feeling well?" "I am tired. How can I be tired when I've only been awake for 2 hours, 23 minutes and...," he glanced at the kitchen clock, "...45 seconds." "Probably the side-effect of the treatment," the Doctor said, "I guess you will sleep for about 6 hours, 18 minutes and 30 seconds, if you go to bed now." Sherlock scowled at him. "There is no way you can know that!" "Wanna bet?" They shook hands on that and, within half a minute, Sherlock was back in bed.

"Wow," Mycroft remarked, "nobody has ever sent him to bed so quickly... except when he was a baby, of course." "Yep, that was me as well," Mycroft stared at the Doctor in disbelieve. "But then I kinda 'cheated' on that one," the Doctor explained, "I speak baby, you see." "You speak WHAT?" The Doctor laughed. "God, you should see yourself when you're not getting something..." "So you have been there right from the beginning...?", Mycroft interrupted himself, before he could say something embarrassing again. The Doctor nodded. "Why?" "Because he needed me. Theoretically, someone like him isn't able to survive in this world. Or at least not to stay sane in this world."

"But I should be helping him with that. I'm his brother, after all," Mycroft said, suddenly sad. "Oh, you do help him," the Doctor said, "you are a great big brother, who cares about him a lot and not everybody has that. He's quite fond of you, you know. Even if he doesn't always let it show." "But I couldn't save him." The Doctor put his hand on Mycroft's in a comforting way. "Well, you did call me... and you did all you could do, sometimes that's all that counts. Besides, I would have felt quite useless otherwise." He winked at Mycroft, who had to laugh at that.

After being silent for a while and just enjoying the comfort of the Doctor's hand on his, Mycroft asked: "Do you ever feel useless? Like you could do so much during your day, or week, or month, but it wouldn't make any difference in the end?" He sighed. "Oh, probably not. You're probably out there, saving lives on end. Every day a good deed, isn't it?" The Doctor gave his hand a soft squeeze. "No, I'm not. Sometimes, there's nothing I can do and things just... happen. But I know what you mean. You think that you're not important, that, if you didn't do the things you did, somebody else would do them. But let me tell you one thing: I have met thousands, millions of people, but I have never met one who wasn't important."

Mycroft put all of his courage together and asked: "And what about us? What about the other night?" The Doctor looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?" Mycroft didn't answer as once, his thoughts swirling in his head at 1000 miles per hour. Then he asked: "You can move in space... and time?" "The Tardis can, yes," the Doctor confirmed. "You want to see her?" "No, I will do that later." Something like mischief lit Mycroft's face up. "Tell me, Doctor, how many times have we met?" "Only once, as far as I remember, but why are you... oh, OH but OF COURSE!" Hope mingled with the mischief on Mycroft's face. Could it be that they didn't just have a one-night-stand then? Could it have been part of something... more?

The Doctor smiled at him. "You obviously know something I don't. But keep it to yourself for the time being. I don't like spoilers."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Later, it felt like the time they had was stolen time, time ripped from the hands of destiny which they never had a chance to keep. Days which were more peaceful than anything the Holmes brothers had ever felt. Later, it felt like a lie. Lazy time in the summer haze, when it was actually already autumn.

During this time, Mycroft learnt to love classical music. He had always listened to it, but only because society demanded it of him. Now, he watched the Doctor lightly dance through the room to Vivaldi's Four Seasons and listened to his brother playing "Europe's Skies" by Rybak. Sherlock, on his turn, seemed to be much more social around the Doctor, much more 'normal'. At one point, Mycroft even thought the Doctor could make the detective a happier person, a somehow better person. How naive he had been! As if changing people was what the Doctor wanted! Mycroft couldn't even be mad at him. Of course, it had never been possible to change Sherlock in the first place.

Even though the Doctor was still back to his Tardis every night, the three of them spent almost all of their time together, when Mycroft wasn't working or Sherlock out to find new cases. But for the first time in his life, Mycroft took it slow in his work and only did what he had to do. The evenings they spent out on his veranda seemed especially valuable to him. It was on one of those evenings, when Sherlock was out looking for new cases, that something happened between Mycroft and the Doctor for the first time.

Later, Mycroft couldn't even remember what they had been talking about, only that the evening had seemed endless and at one point they had just stopped their usual talks about politics, classical music and Sherlock's recovery. The silence between them seemed to vibrate between them and slowly they started moving closer to each other. The Doctor put his hand on Mycroft's thigh, his face suddenly closer to the other man's. Mycroft had never believed in the 'butterflies' were referring to when in love, but at this moment he felt a whole army of them inside of him, not only in his stomach but everywhere. It felt good but oh so strange, so different to any other feeling he had had before. They stayed like this for endless minutes, the Doctor's face only inches away from Mycroft's, their lips almost touching, but not quite. Both of them didn't dare to move, afraid to somehow destroy this moment.

Mycroft could feel the Doctor's breath on his skin, saw the Doctor's eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth and back. Still they didn't move, their hearts beating like crazy, when the Doctor licked his lips and made it unbearable for Mycroft. He overcame the distance between them, which was so much harder than what they had done this one drunk night, somehow more intimate than sex could ever be. Their lips just touched for an instant and then Mycroft moved away again, almost awkwardly. But then, with the Doctor, nothing was really awkward.

The Doctor started softly stroking Mycroft's thigh and kissed him again, softly pressing his lips to the other man's. The Doctor's lips were soft, but demanding and soon the Doctor's other hand came up to Mycroft's neck, so he could pull him down to himself. This gave him better access to Mycroft's mouth, and slowly, his kisses became even more demanding. Mycroft had never dreamed of being kissed like this. He had only seen 'good' kisses on TV and those seemed to be either shy, barely inexistent, or sloppy and with a lot of tongue.

The Doctor's kisses were different, but felt so much better than Mycroft had ever imagined. It was like a play, like something you could actually spent time with, like everything, everything he ever wanted to do, until the end of times... The Doctor took his lower lip between his and slowly nibbled on it, then kissed him again, hungrily, open-mouthed, then took to nibbling on his upper lip. And when he started using his tongue, it was a miracle. Softly exploring Mycroft's mouth, he licked his teeth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure of what he was doing when he carefully touched the Doctor's tongue with his own.

The Doctor pulled away, laughing. "Have I done something wrong?" "No, no," the Doctor assured, "I'm just ticklish." "You are ticklish on your tongue?" Now Mycroft laughed as well. And they were still laughing when they resumed kissing. Nothing had ever felt that good. Nothing ever would. When the sun had finally set, the Doctor got up and took Mycroft's hand. "Come on, let's go inside." Mycroft took the Doctor's hand gladly and followed him into the flat.

Later, it was too painful to remember what had happened that night. Bitter-sweet. Because it had felt like the start of a new life, but it hadn't been meant for forever. It had only been this night. Only this. When Mycroft later thought of it, it was as if he was referring to it in the third person, from a distance. To painful otherwise. All lies.

It had all been just lies. The Doctor wasn't a man. The Doctor was eternal, unreachable among the starts, and not meant to stay on earth for a longer period. The next morning, Mycroft had found a note saying "This was amazing. So sorry I had to go. Will be back as soon as I can. Love, Doctor" Not even a name, only 'Doctor'. Not even 'I love you', only 'love'. And Mycroft had waited. For two years he had waited until he had given up. But no more! Every word which was spoken between them, every touch they had exchanged was a lie. Could only be a lie. Because the Doctor could travel in time. So even if he had been late, even if he had kept him waiting, he could have just travelled back in time.

"He's out there, saving the word... or saving other planets," Sherlock had said. And he was probably right. The Doctor had more important things to do and Mycroft could never be angry with him, because he didn't know how the Doctor felt. Maybe he was as miserable as Mycroft was. Maybe he didn't want to leave. Maybe he was in pain. Maybe he was dead. Mycroft just didn't know. But with time, he stopped caring. Because caring wasn't an advantage. Because all hearts are meant to be broken, even his. And he would never again allow someone to be so close to him. Never again.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

When Mycroft met John for the first time, he wasn't impressed. Still, he was jealous. But also worried about his brother. Sherlock had never shown sentiment for anyone. And he was certainly not one to share a flat out of his own free will. Shouldn't mean anything. Maybe his brother just hoped Mycroft would leave him alone if there was someone with him most of the time. There hadn't been any drug relapse in the last few years, but Mycroft still worried far too much. Cared far too much.

That was why he did everything to scare John off, to make Sherlock's little soldier one of his own tin soldiers. Didn't work, of course. Much too loyal, that guy. But he could at least creep him out a bit. Flirt with him a bit. Those calloused soldier hands. Mycroft had always had a thing for hands. Maybe because it didn't matter, in the end, if they belonged to a man or a woman. If they brought him off, women did as well as men and he would never let another man touch him.

Well, maybe he would make an exception for John. Just theoretically, of course. Everything would be fine, as long as the doctor wasn't snogging Sherlock the next time he saw the two flatmates together. But he doubted that. So far, the detective had not reacted to any of John's advances. And then the doctor said he was not gay – something he even seemed to believe himself.

While Sherlock had been establishing himself as some sort of freelance detective, Mycroft had gained a tremendous amount of power within the British government – as well as in the CIA. He had all but given up to draw his brother to the 'right side', but kept the argument up for argument's sake. That had the positive side effect that Sherlock wasn't aware of the fact that his brother cared for him, no matter what the younger Holmes did. But sentiment wasn't an advantage and would never be one. One did better hide the sentiment where it came up.

Whenever memories of the Doctor sprang into Mycroft's mind, he pushed them away vehemently. But the more he watched John and Sherlock, the more he wished the Doctor was at his side. And if only just as a friend. But this was nonsense. He didn't NEED a friend. Before he met that stupid man, Mycroft had been ok on his own. And Sherlock should be alone too. He was his brother, after all. Much too smart for most people and certainly for this little soldier of his.

It was only when Watson referred to himself as "Sherlock's doctor" that Mycroft got really angry, though. "So, you're his DOCTOR now, aren't you?", he mumbled to himself. He wasn't prone to talking to himself. Couldn't remember the last time he had done it. He only did it when he was really angry. And Mycroft was never 'really angry'. However, he felt like punching a wall right now. "You little bitch think you're something special, don't you?", he whispered in his empty flat. "Want to play your little Uncle Doctor Games with my brother, don't you? Bet you've learnt that in the army! Bet you got lonely there. Learnt to suck-cock... but that's not what you want now, do you? You want to FUCK my brother. Think he's just some vulnerable virgin you can seduce and then fuck him in the arse. Like you used to do with your mates. You sick bastard! Bet you'll only feign feelings for him and then LEAVE. Fucking leave likelike..." Mycroft took a deep, shuddering breath.

No! No, this couldn't remind him of the Doctor. Couldn't. Wouldn't. It wasn't like that with him. It wasn't. It was real... It was a lie! Oh, all a lie and how could he have forgotten! The pain would never go away.

Mycroft was standing in the middle of his empty apartment. He wished he could just stop feeling. For all these years, he had pretended that his heart was cold, so cold. That there weren't any feelings in there. "Two hearts," he whispered, "the Doctor had two hearts, how could he betray me?" Because Mycroft saw the Doctor leaving him as a betrayal. It probably wasn't his fault... but he was SICK of that! Now Mycroft really went over to the wall and kicked it. And how good it felt! The physical pain for a second stronger than the emotional. No more excuses for this bastard! He had probably laughed about him from up in the clouds anyway. Mycroft stared at the wall. White and empty. That's how he wanted to feel. White and empty.

Another strategy, then. As forgetting obviously didn't work. Remembering, then. Only for this night, mind. He made himself a drink and sat in front of the fireplace. Just like old times. He laughed drily. Old he felt, indeed.

The one night he had spent with the Doctor had been the most wonderful night of his life. He still remembered it as if it was yesterday. They had undressed in a hurry, too aroused to settle for a slower, maybe slightly more romantic undressing of each other. But when the Doctor was lying on his bed, Mycroft could only stand and stare. The Time Lord had looked like a normal man, yet by far more beautiful than any man he had ever seen. His skin was perfectly smooth, the shiny light-brown only interrupted by black chest und pubic hair. He looked like a statue, yet so alive with his gleaming eyes and soft, full lips. And the hair, the impossible hair. Never to be tamed and never imperfect for it.

The Doctor chuckled. "You want to stay there forever? Playing spot the mistake, are you?" Mycroft frowned. "I can't see any mistakes." The Doctor nodded towards his still soft cock. "Oh." Given that Mycroft himself was already gloriously hard, he must have done something wrong. "It's ok," the Doctor said, reading his thoughts, "I'm afraid I just need a bit more... attention in that area than you." Mycroft smirked, feeling suddenly daring. "Any more surprises, Doctor? More challenges?" The Doctor laughed. "Oh well, I have two hearts as well, but that shouldn't be a problem." "Two..." "Yea, very good for regeneration, actually. And also for... second rounds, I guess." Mycroft laughed and finally moved towards the Doctor.

The first touch was electrifying. It felt like touching a human, no surprises there, but maybe that was why it was special. He slowly started caressing the Doctor, starting with the feet, moving up his body, but leaving out his groin for the time being. And time they had. Time seemed to be an eternity. They kissed again and soon the Doctor started touching him as well. Still he was strangely passive, but seemed to be happy in this role. At least that was what his wanton moans implied. Finally, they both couldn't take it anymore and the Doctor guided Mycroft's hands to his cock.

Mycroft had never touched another man's cock before, but it felt so wonderful, so normal somehow. As if it was meant to be. Everything about this night seemed to be. And the Doctor's cock was big! Big and lean, like everything else about this man. Mycroft soon started to pump this amazing cock, the Doctor's moans making him forget everything else around him. He didn't even realize he was grinding his own cock against the other man's hips, until the Doctor stopped him. "Fuck me," the Doctor said, "fuck me now, I'm ready." "But don't we need... something?" The Doctor chuckled. "Never slept with a Time Lord before, have you? The only thing you need is your cock and try not to loose your mind."

Mycroft swallowed. "I'll try not to." The Doctor laughed again. But it had been close. The feeling when he first entered the Doctor had been like nothing he had ever felt before. So tight, so slick and warm. Like a woman, but not quite. So much better. Heat surrounded him. Heat flooded him. "Are you alright?", the Doctor asked. "Yes, yes I think so. You are so tight." The Doctor moaned in reply. "Is this good for you?", Mycroft asked. "Yes, just... can you put my legs over your shoulders? Takes you deeper..." So that was what Mycroft did and it felt amazing. So deep. And he wasn't even worried that he might not last. He would suck the Doctor off later if necessary. Or give it to him with his hands. Anything. Everything. Nothing seemed too much.

And when he started moving, Mycroft's world seemed complete. Everything was as it was meant to be. "You're so beautiful," he breathed. The Doctor smiled up at him. "You too." Mycroft laughed. "No, I'm not beautiful." "Yes, you are... and strong... and biiiiig... oh my God." "Is there then?" "What?" "A God?" "You doubt that? You are having the most amazing sex in the world right now and doubt that there's a God?" Mycroft laughed again. "Oh, shut up, idiot." "Oh no, you don't want that... nnnng... cause my voice turns you on... and it turns ME on to talk... oooh, yes, like that... right there." Mycroft seemed to have hit that spot, even though he wasn't sure what 'that spot' was with a Time Lord. "I love you," he whispered. "I love you too," the Doctor answered softly and started moaning louder and louder. Mycroft's moves soon started to become erratic, until he came deep inside of the Doctor. And then he had sucked him off. And given him head. Then shagged him again. He couldn't remember how often they had done it that night.

But even though this had been the most amazing sex he had ever had, it seemed almost unimportant compared to the words they had exchanged. The way the Doctor had looked at him with those soft brown eyes. The smile which was almost always on his lips. It hadn't mattered that he was a Time Lord. And yet it had mattered so very much. Mycroft had felt his two hearts beating, his ear pressed to the Doctor's breast. "Which one is mine?", he had jokingly asked. The Doctor had answered, rather seriously: "Both, both are yours, and I will be there when you need me."

Tears were running down Mycroft's cheek. He had forgotten that part. Completely erased it. How could he? These wonderful words the Doctor had spoken. He was a miracle back then and always would be. Maybe he was just too good for Mycroft. Miracles didn't stay. But then what did that mean "...when you need me"? What if he needed him now? Mycroft frowned. But did the Doctor define 'need' as he did? When he had been lonely before, the Doctor wasn't there, but when Sherlock had almost died, he was. It sounded cruel, of course, but what if Mycroft's heart just wasn't that important? "All hearts are broken," he whispered. Still, he believed a little bit more in what was yet to come.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Mycroft mumbled sleepily, softly stroking the Doctor's hair. The other man smiled up at him from his slightly lower position on the bed. "You really like my hair, don't you?" "You have amazing hair." "Just as long as you don't pull it all out..." "I would never..." "You certainly tried... but then you were drunk back then."

Mycroft was suddenly fully awake. "You remember?" "Yes, of course I remember." "But you said... the whole 'spoiler' thing. I thought you just hadn't met me yet." The Doctor suddenly looked sad. "So sorry," he said, "but you would never have dared to touch me otherwise. You would never let me touch you when you weren't hoping for more than another one-night stand. And you never believed enough in yourself to hope for that without a little... incentive." Mycroft frowned. But then it made sense, somehow. The thought that the Doctor had COME BACK to him when he was younger had spurred him on. The thought that they would have a relationship, that it had actually already happened... or would have to happen if the Doctor would visit him in the past for a shag. And that the Doctor had pretended this to be true must mean he really loved him, mustn't it?

What a load of crap! Mycroft sat up in his bed. He couldn't believe he had really fallen for that. For that big fat lie. For that beautiful stranger! And he couldn't believe he was still dreaming about him! Not only when he was sleeping, but the in every waking hour as well. Whenever Mycroft only CONSIDERED to touch a woman, or a man, to kiss, to hold, to love, the Doctor came to his mind. The Doctor would never come back to him, and no matter how often he tried to give him up, no matter how often he tried to forget, Mycroft never got rid of the memory.

There had been days, weeks, months, during which he had had a clear head, only thinking about the Doctor every now and then. When he had ALMOST forgotten. But then the pain just came back roaring, tearing him apart. When Sherlock had met John, for example. Those two were simply meant for each other. No matter what Mycroft did, sooner or later something would happen between them. And where would HE be in this picture? Going to a nice restaurant with the two of them, feeling like an unnecessary accessory? Not seeing his brother at all anymore, finally having no more reason to worry? What would he do then? Without the worrying, without somebody needing him, what would be the meaning of his life?

Of course he had a country to run. Mycroft groaned. His majesty needed him. But he wasn't irreplaceable, no matter how hard he told himself that he was. And what if he suddenly broke? Who would fix him? He was so discrete with his weaknesses that he didn't let anybody see them. Nobody would help him! Nobody would be there. Nobody would miss him, really. Really miss him, like he missed the Doctor.

When Mycroft got up, he had made a decision. He put his clothes on and got ready for work. When he left the house, he was actually humming.

Mycroft's working day was rather successful. Mycroft got a lot of paperwork done, Sherlock kept blissfully out of his way and Mycroft even managed to cheer his grumpy colleague up by telling a few rude jokes. For the evening, he bought a bottle of Sauvignon and all the ingredients for one of his favourite meals. After a short visit to the pharmacist, he arrived at his flat half an hour earlier than usual. He got out of his sweaty clothes, took a shower and put on his best suit, glad that he knew the recipe by heart and wouldn't risk spilling anything if he was careful.

And careful he was. As always. He could upset Mommy, of course, this evening, but that was just a risk he had to take. Mycroft put on some Vivaldi and enjoyed his meal. Afterwards, he put the dishes in the dishwasher and took the wine with him to his study.

After a short, but well-written letter, he emigrated to the living-room, where Vivaldi was still playing. He had everything planned out. The small package of pills lay next to his glass on the table. It probably wouldn't be a quick death, but a safe one. Could later be taken for an accidental overdose. Not that Sherlock would ever fall for that. But it was a clean solution. His brother had John now, the government would soon find an eager replacement for him and Mycroft would be put out of his misery.

Of course, he also hoped to speak to the Doctor first. Cause this was 'need'. Raw and simple need. "Doctor, I need you. Can't you see me now?", Mycroft whispered. He didn't really believe the Doctor would come. He put the pills into his glass, enough to kill a race horse, and watched them dissolve. Very neat indeed. Maybe the Doctor wouldn't come, but then Mycroft would at least KNOW, wouldn't he? That it was all a lie. That the Doctor had shagged hundreds before him and would shag hundreds after him and that it never really MEANT anything.

Mycroft could have just got on with his life. He was sure that many others would have. Anyone who didn't realize when they met THE ONE, really. But Mycroft knew that the Doctor was the only acceptable better other half he could have. Hell, the most brilliant, stunning, amazingly beautiful better other half! The Doctor had just spoilt him for the rest of the world. At times so very human and at times so full of knowledge, but also full of an eternal sadness Mycroft could never fully understand, the Doctor had been a miracle to him. Every day, Mycroft had learnt something knew about him and the Doctor could tell the most amazing stories about unknown places all around the universe.

And now Mycroft didn't even know if one of those stories had been true. "Once a liar, always a liar", as one of his former teachers had said. "Just another miracle for me then, Doctor," Mycroft whispered, "come back for me and tell me that it was all true. That every word of it was true. That you really love me. My life is empty without you. Empty and sad. But I don't want to do this. I don't want to die. But I don't want to live without you either."

He sipped on his glass and grimaced. Bitter. But then every medicine was. "Don't let me die," he said. He got up, glass in hand and went over to the window, stared out into the dark. "Freedom," he said, "that's all I'm asking for. Sometimes I am cruel when I do my work. Get people tortured, or torture them myself. For the greater good, of course. For my country. But there's blood on my hands, Doctor." He took another sip.

"So much blood! And I've seen innocent blood as well. Seen what those criminals have done to their victims. This world isn't fair, no one can make it a better place. But with you, it was at least a bearable place." A tear started running down his face. He had promised himself to keep calm, but now it just hurt too much. "Doctor, I need you." But with his third sip he felt certain that the Doctor wouldn't come back to him. It was over. "I love you and I always will," he whispered and made to drown the rest of his glass.

Suddenly, there was a burst of glass behind him. Mycroft froze in his movement, his glass halfway on its way to his mouth. "Doctor?" There was only a laugh in reply. Was the Doctor laughing at him? But he wouldn't be so cruel, would he? "I was serious," Mycroft said, still facing the window, "I was going to do it."

But when he turned around, it wasn't the Doctor who he saw, but a stranger. "I'm certainly not a doctor," the man laughed. He was holding a gun, pointed at a surprised Mycroft, who almost laughed at the sight. The stranger came towards him and looked at Mycroft's glass with amusement. "What do you have there? Any good?" Now Mycroft really laughed. It was even hard to stop. Had destiny gone insane now?

"You want a taste?", he asked, holding the glass towards the stranger. "You bet I do," the man said, took the glass from Mycroft and drowned it. "Ah, that's better," the stranger – robber? Murderer? Kidnapper? – said, put the glass on the window sill closest to him and whipped his mouth with his sleeve. "You wouldn't believe how thirsty you can get de-activating a security system like yours."

"Who are you?", Mycroft asked. "Moriarty," the man answered, holding out his hand towards Mycroft. "Jonathan Moriarty." Mycroft took the hand, shook it and asked: "And what do you want, Moriarty, Jonathan Moriarty?" "Me and my brother have been watching you for quite some time now," Jonathan answered, "and we have both decided that you are a PRETTY pain in the arse, Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft frowned. "So what if I was?" "Oh you stupid little joker, you," Jonathan cackled. By this time, Mycroft was sure the man was mad... mad and probably soon dead, if the pills did what they were supposed to do. Soon, preferably.

"Why, I will shoot you, of course!", the stranger said. "You will never get away with that," Mycroft retorted. Time. All he needed was time. Gun victims were such a terrible mess. "Oh, don't worry, we have made sure that we WILL. And now turn around, Daddy's had enough now!" Jonathan frowned. "Somehow sounds better when Jim says that."

"What about taking this into the bedroom? I've always kind of wanted to die in my bedroom," Mycroft suggested. Just a little more time. Jonathan frowned. "Are you making fun of me?" "Planned my suicide, actually," Mycroft explained calmly. "So I don't really care." Jonathan's eyes lit up, then he started cackling again. "A suicide! Isn't that just WONDERFUL, Mister Holmes. Now let's go to the bedroom, let me help you a bit with your 'suicide'!"

So Mycroft let himself be walked into his bedroom, racking his brain how he could play for some more time. But then he didn't have to. The moment Mycroft set foot in his bedroom, he heard the man retching behind him. He turned around and Jonathan had all but dropped his gun, clutching at his stomach with both hands, a puddle of sick at his feet "What have you done to me? What was in the whine?", he croaked. "Painkillers," Mycroft answered drily, "too many of them." Jonathan stared at him in horror, than pointed the gun at Mycroft again.

Suddenly, something changed inside of Mycroft. He didn't want that guy to die. Sure, he was one of the 'bad guys'; any other day he had him tortured, maybe even executed without batting an eyelid. But Jonathan was a human being after all. The speed with which he had made the connection to the whine suggested a smart one as well. Not that this made any difference. Mycroft was smart himself and yet there he was, throwing his life away in a whim, just like any other betrayed lover.

"Please, I can help you," he said, "just put the gun down and I can help you," Mycroft said. But Jonathan didn't put his gun down and the last thing Mycroft saw was a white light, then everything went dark. The last thing Mycroft heard was a soft voice, whispering into his ear that everything would be alright.


End file.
